


you're just a cannibal (and i'm afraid i won't get out alive)

by Zoadgo



Series: Kinktober 2018 [22]
Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Bossy Peter, Injury, M/M, Maybe vore, Needy roman, Vampire Feeding, Wound fixation, blood consumption, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: “Peter-”“Roman, jesus christ, get yourself together,” Peter cuts him off roughly and rudely, just shy of shouting. He can’t be alone right now, he needs Roman in the way he’s never really needed anyone else. Maybe he’s afraid, and maybe he feels less afraid with his big, bad, Upir dipshit friend hanging around.“I can’t, okay?! Maybe I haven’t eaten in a while, and maybe the last meal I had was shitty junkie leeches, and you’re justwastingall that- all that-” Roman turns on him, temper flaring until his attention fades, eyes fixated on the blood still leaking from Peter.Peter’s stomach flips again, but in a different way. Honestly, there’s something vulgar about the way Roman is eyeing him up, and Peter is going to blame his reaction to that on the blood loss.





	you're just a cannibal (and i'm afraid i won't get out alive)

**Author's Note:**

> [title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gM7Hlg75Mlo)
> 
> late upload for the 22nd of kinktober, which was **Hand-jobs**. Originally I had this one for vore, but we gonna go harder on that one. Anyway, yeah, I started this about 2 years ago but never finished it, so here it finally is.
> 
> my beta [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) is the greatest person on the planet tbh, i couldn't do this without her
> 
> [tumblr](http://jonnmurphy.tumblr.com)

Peter isn't exactly sure how he makes it back to their shitty motel room, bleeding profusely from his leg and leaning on an Upir. Never mind that the Upir in question is his best friend in the whole universe, who Peter trusts more than himself. Still, Roman is a blood drinker, and there’s a whole damn lot of blood staining Peter’s pant leg. 

When they get through the door, Roman practically throws Peter at one of the beds, turning away sharply and leaning his head against the wall. Well, that’s fine enough in Peter’s mind. Better than him pouncing on him and tearing him to shreds. 

With his friend hunched over and breathing so hard it’s honestly a little annoying, Peter divests himself of his ruined jeans. It’s not an easy process, involving no small amount of swearing when the denim catches in his injury, but Peter is no stranger to pain. Compared to shedding his skin, this is nothing.

He looks down at the gash so kindly gifted to him by whatever the fuck it was they had cornered in that abandoned warehouse, and his stomach flips. Okay, maybe not nothing.

It’s not that he’s made queasy by blood, or injuries, or his own pain. And Peter knows this won’t kill him, his wolf won’t let it. But still, something about it is off putting in a way he’s not quite used to. He groans, closing his eyes against the swimming of the room. Does he need to stitch it up? He doesn’t know how to stitch, not well enough to do so on his own damn leg, anyway.

“You should tell me to leave,” Roman speaks, voice muffled and curiously dead. Only a small tremor belays how much restraint he actually might be displaying right now. Peter knows this, on the one hand. On the other, he’s in a whole lot of pain, and he’s not feeling exceptionally sympathetic right now.

“What?” Peter snaps, brain a little behind the pace and not quite processing Roman’s words or meaning right away.

“Tell me to leave, to fuck off.” Roman groans pathetically, his curse sounding uncharacteristically weak.

“No way, that thing is still out there and- ugh, jesus- I might need some help with this, actually.” Roman looks down at his leg again. Yeah, he’s pretty sure he can’t deal with all that on his own. Cleaning and simple bandaging, sure, but being his own test subject for stitching is not something he wants to do unless there’s no other way.

“Peter-”

“Roman, jesus christ, get yourself together,” Peter cuts him off roughly and rudely, just shy of shouting. He can’t be alone right now, he needs Roman in the way he’s never really needed anyone else. Maybe he’s afraid, and maybe he feels less afraid with his big, bad, Upir dipshit friend hanging around.

“I can’t, okay?! Maybe I haven’t eaten in a while, and maybe the last meal I had was shitty junkie leeches, and you’re just _wasting_ all that- all that-” Roman turns on him, temper flaring until his attention fades, eyes fixated on the blood still leaking from Peter. 

Peter’s stomach flips again, but in a different way. Honestly, there’s something vulgar about the way Roman is eyeing him up, and Peter is going to blame his reaction to that on the blood loss. Nevermind that the blood has mostly stopped by now, and he has no other signs of having lost too much.

“What the fuck, man, are you saying you’re gonna feed on me or something?” Peter interrogates, trying to get Roman to snap the fuck out of the trance he’s in. Because that’s dangerous, and if he’s as hungry as he claims to be…

Destiny would so kill him if Peter let an Upir bite him.

“I want to. Shit, I want to so bad.” Roman doesn’t take his eyes off Peter’s leg for a second, his tone one step shy of begging. Desperate, a little bit whiny, so nakedly vulnerable and needy that it takes the edge off of Peter’s pain-induced anger. Roman’s suffering, and he could do something about it.

But would he really let him feed on him? The more Peter thinks about it, the less downsides he sees. And given the way that Roman inches forward, actually licking his lips, it seems like he might not have a choice for much longer.

“I- Fuck. Alright,” Peter relents, nerves suddenly spiking within him. God, was he always this much of an idiot? Getting hurt like he did, and now this.

Roman finally looks away from Peter’s injury, eyes wide and brows raised in surprise. He looks oddly innocent for someone who had just been eye fucking a wound and begging to drink some blood. Peter simply shakes his head and takes a deep breath. If it’s Roman, it’s okay. He reminds himself of this, letting the breath go slowly, grounding himself.

“Get on your knees,” Peter commands, as if he's the one with the power here. Without his wolf, Roman can easily overpower him, and they both know it. Regardless, Roman kneels obediently in front of Peter, his eyes fixed on the deep gash in Peter's thigh. “Now ask nicely.”

“Please,” Roman whispers. He rests his cheek against Peter's knee, his hands on Peter's thigh just above the wound. He's transfixed, hypnotized, and his trance sends a dark shiver through Peter. If he tried to deny his friend at this point, he's certain it would end in his death. But by doing this, allowing Roman the feed he so desperately desires, Peter gets to dictate the situation.

Peter takes another deep breath, steeling himself for what's to come. There's no guarantee Roman will be able to stop, no way of knowing if he'll lose control once he has a taste of blood. Even if his tenuous control holds, it's going to hurt. Peter grits his teeth and nods.

“Okay.”

Roman immediately fixes his mouth over the bleeding cut, and for a heartbeat there’s just the heat of his mouth, and it’s not so bad. Almost pleasant, as the heat and restricted air separates the injury from the harsh atmosphere of the room. But then his tongue drags deep in Peter’s flesh, where things aren’t supposed to go, which his body reminds him with electric pain. Peter clenches his jaw, desperately trying to avoid crying out. His head falls back against the chair and he attempts to breathe deeply, to take his mind off overwhelming pain. 

For a brief second, it actually works, as Roman switches from lapping at the blood to sucking at the wound. In that moment, something inside Peter shifts, on the level where his wolf lives. It finds something… different, in the pain. It picks up on the feel of Roman’s hands on his thighs, ice cold and holding him in place with bruising force. 

Just as Peter is about to get used to the peculiar sensation, Roman makes a noise akin to a growl and digs teeth - no, fangs - into the hyper-sensitive tissue of the injury. Peter can’t help but cry out at that, a strangled noise, and Roman’s movement still against his leg. His mouth is still there, but he pauses his feeding, and that deep place in Peter relishes that. It must have taken so much effort for him to stop, it must be even harder for him to continue holding himself back. Peter can see the strain in the tense line of Roman’s shoulders, and he wonders how long he can remain like this, getting no more than a trickle of free flowing blood.

Peter takes the moment to indulge the part of him that had made the pain seem not so bad. It might help him get through this if he can give into that instinct, doubtless something primal. Something that relishes in the flow of blood and the tearing of flesh, even if it’s his; that can indulge in the struggle and fight of restraining himself to let Roman feed. Something that notices how Roman’s lips feel against his skin, how his tongue is insanely talented as it coaxes blood from his leg because his resolve is clearly breaking and-

Fuck, Peter grinds his teeth and concentrates for an entirely different reason than ignoring the pain. He is not getting half hard at having an Upir feed on him.

“It’s… okay,” Peter grunts. He wants Roman to go back to feeding, to get this over with so he can ignore whatever the hell is currently happening in his pants. But then Roman looks up at him, eyes dark with hunger but clearly looking for confirmation. That it’s really okay, that he can really keep going, and shit that is not helping Peter’s growing erection. He lets out a shaky breath and tries again in a more steady voice. “Keep going.”

Roman holds his gaze for a moment longer, his ministrations to Peter’s legs stilled to the barest lapping of his tongue which doesn’t actually feel that bad. Peter wouldn’t even term that as ‘pain’ at this point. Evidently he finds what he’s looking for in Peter’s eyes - either that or his hunger is too much. He detaches from Peter’s leg for just a moment, pulls his lips back and Peter is momentarily caught up in the red glisten of his fangs. Roman is a predator, an apex creature, and Peter can’t help his awe at this evidence of that.

Roman sinks in his teeth once more, and this time Peter restrains the noise in his throat, although he honestly can’t tell if it would have been a moan of pleasure or a groan of pain. The sensation of being fed upon, of being devoured with such abandon, is so overwhelming he can’t even begin to make sense of it. Peter tells himself this, and tells himself that his more intimate reaction is totally normal. Some fucked up side effect of fight or flight, or something.

When Roman pulls his teeth from Peter’s flesh he begins those deep, forceful motions with his tongue once more, massaging the wound and seeking out every drop of blood in it. Peter’s breath catches in his throat and he tries desperately not to like it, the way that Roman’s lips form a seal and suck at him like there’s no tomorrow. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on not focusing on anything. Breathing, that’s safe enough. He tries to think only of his breathing, in and out, shallow and quick as it may be. 

There’s no pause in Roman’s feeding, and Peter finds himself clenching his hands into fists on his thighs for something to anchor him, to prevent him from being devoured body and soul by the seemingly unending assault. It’s an uneven cycle of biting, sucking, and - for lack of a better term - tongue fucking. All primal, insistent hunger that drives out thought of anything else. Peter wonders if it’s an Upir thing, to make their prey complacent, or if it’s something of his wolf coming through.

Peter eyes snap open at the sound of a moan, momentarily mortified that it had come from him. He looks down at Roman to see if he noticed, or even cared, and realizes that the noise wasn’t him as Roman moans against his skin again, deep and verging on a growl. One of Roman’s hands has left where it was gripping Peter’s thigh, and is now firmly between his own. Not jacking himself off - thank God, Peter isn’t sure he could have handled opening his eyes to see that - but palming himself clumsily through his jeans.

Peter knows that he should call an end to this, if he can. This was just supposed to be a feeding, so Roman could be focused and not, you know, kill him. It wasn’t anything more, _shouldn’t_ be anything more. So why can he not take his eyes off of Roman stroking himself through heavy pants? Why doesn’t he find that image repulsive? 

Peter notices, as he gets over the shock of noticing Roman is getting off on this, that Roman’s non-occupied hand is resting far farther up Peter’s thigh than it had been. It’s not quite touching his now rock hard dick, but with the barest movement it would be. Peter’s breath stutters as he realizes this, at Roman slows his feeding in order to look up at him. In doing so there's no way he doesn’t notice Peter’s erection, and Peter cuts off a filthy noise before it escapes him.

This is it, this is his chance. He has Roman’s attention, and he can end this and they can go back to… whatever the hell they were, definitely more than friends, but less than what going forward with this would make them. Peter readies the words, brings “No” right to the tip of his tongue-

Roman rudely interrupts all of his preparation with another hard press of his tongue into Peter’s thigh. Possibly not intentional, but if Peter knows Roman at all, it almost definitely was. The moan that breaks free of Peter takes the last of his resolve with it, and he practically pants as he notices the triumphant look in Roman’s eyes.

Yeah, intentional. What an asshole.

“Shee-it,” Peter draws out the curse, his gaze going to Roman’s hips still grinding into his hand. “Do it. Touch me.”

For a moment, Peter is aware that Roman might not acquiesce to his demands, and he’s uncertain of what he would do if he doesn’t. After all, so far, Roman has only touched himself, he hasn’t admitted to any attraction to Peter, only a reaction to feeding. Which, with him being Upir, is totally reasonable. For Peter, on the other hand, he shouldn't be having this response, probably wouldn’t if it was anyone but Roman. If Roman doesn’t want him, then Peter will be the one who fucked it all up…

The doubt doesn’t last long, however, as Roman wastes very little time in closing that small distance between his hand and Peter’s dick, palming him roughly through his boxers. Peter’s hips buck up into the touch, and he curses loudly. Roman grips him firmly at the same time that he resumes feeding in earnest, and god is it ever intense. The feeling of being encompassed by Roman’s hand through thin fabric and invaded and devoured by his tongue at the same time threatens to overwhelm Peter. 

Peter reaches out and twists his hands into Roman’s hair, tugging sharply at the strands to anchor himself. Roman growls, digging his teeth in all the more, and electricity sparks along Peter’s nerves. He chokes out a curse as Roman somehow manages to free his erection from his boxers with one blind hand. Peter has no idea how he’s coordinating that, his own fervent rutting, and feeding on Peter. Maybe it’s an Upir thing, or maybe it’s just a Roman hand.

His speculations about Roman’s multitasking skills is cut off at skin on skin contact. A long moan breaks unbidden from his throat, simply at Roman dragging his fingers over the length of him. It’s more than that, of course, the pleasure there giving his body a place to focus all the considerable amount of stimulation it’s receiving. But still, the cold fingers on his cock feel like the most heavenly thing his mind could possibly imagine.

Roman breaks away from his leg, resting his chin on Peter’s knee to watch him, feeding evidently taking a backseat to jerking him off. Peter’s not sure if he should be flattered by that, but he supposes that doesn’t matter much at this point. Roman swipes his hand over the head, gathering the precome already leaking from him and using it to make his motions a little easier.

As Roman eases him into it - which Peter finds hilarious, given that he’d just been going to town on his leg, but now seems so courteous and almost hesitant about a little hand-job - Peter steals some glances at him. Not enough to be considered staring, which Roman is _definitely_ staring at his cock, but enough to imprint the image of him in his mind. His blood, smeared on Roman’s lips and chin like the most sinful lipstick on the planet, pupils blow wide with animalistic hunger and need, eyes fluttering as he rocks his hips into his own hand. He’s a picture of sex and violence, and Peter groans deep in his throat at it.

It’s not fair. He’d always known Roman was pretty, had called him that, even. But this half-fucked version of him, fucking kneeling in front of Peter and jerking him off like it’s a treat to do so? Ungodly.

“Shit, Roman,” Peter gasps out his name as Roman finally does more than light passes of his hand, squeezing the base of Peter’s cock and dragging his hand up. His hands fall from Roman’s hair to grip at his shoulders, which seems to spur him on. Roman makes a little keening noise, something small and desperate, pumping Peter with deft little twists of his wrist thrown in.

“God, you jerked many guys off? You’re fucking-” Peter tries to shit-talk, words choking him as Roman swipes his thumb over the sensitive head of his dick, perhaps more forcefully than he needed to, but still feeling so good as sparks fly in Peter’s gut. “-shit you’re fucking good at this.”

“You always talk this much when someone’s touching your dick?” Roman quips back, his words casual, but his voice sounding absolutely wrecked. Like he’s already gone five rounds, and wants to go another ten.

“N-nah.” It takes Peter two tries to make the flippant reply, because Roman curls his finger in so he actually lightly drags his nails over the back of Peter’s cock. It should feel dangerous, or maybe painful, but after the feeding, it’s just more white hot lines of pleasure. More sensation, driving into his brain and driving his wolf wild, so close to the surface.

Words fail him, and Peter’s pretty sure he growls with a voice that belongs to the forest. Roman’s eyes shine with interest at that, and he seems to redouble his efforts. His hand moves faster between Peter’s thighs, thumb caressing his balls in brief pauses at the base. It’s unlike any hand-job Peter’s ever received, frantic and just shy of painful, but it’s exactly what he’s craving.

He digs his fingernails into Roman’s shoulders, and he’s sure he’s going to leave marks on his pale skin, which thrills his wolf and seems appropriate revenge for the bite marks ringing his thigh. His climax builds like a thundercloud in his core, wild and unrestrained. Peter coughs on an almost panicked breath, heart pounding like it’s the full moon. He’s close, he knows it, and he’s pretty sure Roman can tell, too.

In the last moment before his release, Roman takes one last taste of his wound, one more deep drag of his tongue through abused tissue. It’s astonishingly painful, a whip crack along his nerves that sends Peter flying over the edge. He’s sure he makes some kind of noise when he comes, but he’s half out of his mind with the intensity of it, so he can’t be quite sure.

His jizz spills over his lower abdomen, and Roman releases his cock before he even comes back to himself enough to think about how gross that is, or how he really wishes he had taken his boxers off, because they definitely have cum on them now. He’s a bit confused by the sudden loss of contact, but then he hears the zip of a fly, and he understands. Peter leaves his hands on Roman’s shoulders, feeling the flex of his muscles, and if he steals a look at Roman jerking himself off, that’s fair, isn’t it?

Roman grabs Peter’s discarded jeans to finish on, which, wow, rude. They were garbage anyway, but Peter’s definitely going to get him back for that, because you don’t just jizz on someone else’s pants without asking first. Even if you had just drank their blood. And given them the weirdest and best hand-job of their life. Still rude.

Peter hastily tucks himself back into his boxers and pretends he hadn’t been watching as Roman cleans himself up somewhat and refastens his pants. At least he’s kind enough to get up and throw out the thoroughly ruined jeans, and to get a cloth for Peter to clean himself up with. He throws it at his face, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. 

It’s thoroughly awkward for a moment, Roman standing there and fidgeting lightly with Peter’s blood still on his chin, and Peter holding a cum rag in his hand. Roman clearly isn’t going to be the first to speak, so Peter takes that on himself, looking down at his even more messed up leg with a sigh.

“So… Think I need stitches?”

“Try explaining that shit to a doctor.” Roman snorts, poking one of the marks left by his teeth, and Peter winces.

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

Just like that, they’re back to normal. Of course, Peter still has the matter of a gaping wound on his leg to deal with, but at least it’s not bleeding now. Silver linings, he supposes.


End file.
